


La La La La La

by GrrHatLet



Category: Daria (Cartoon)
Genre: Casa Lane, F/M, Mystic Spiral - Freeform, sick sad world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 20:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7698676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrrHatLet/pseuds/GrrHatLet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started as an ordinary night. That should've been the first omen…</p>
            </blockquote>





	La La La La La

It had been such a quiet evening.

“BUT _MO-OM!”_

“Had” being the optimum word.

Quinn followed Mom out of the living room while a growing crisis followed overhead. Behind them three figures hunched over a colorfully ostentatious publication of some kind, engaging in some type of non-verbal communication.

“We _can’t_ start our meeting with only 3 cans of diet soda! That’s like…like…what the Russians did to the peasants or something! And Tiffany’s still trying to lose 2 pounds after her family’s trip to San Diego!”

_That’s not the only thing she’s gradually losing…_

“I’m sure you and the girls will learn to cope,” Helen reassured as she maneuvered through magazines, furry pillows, snack bags, and enough cosmetics to gussy up a developing country. Honestly, how much lipgloss did 4 teenage girls-

“Daria, what are you doing?”

Daria Morgendorffer, 17 years old and 5 inches from freedom, sighed and released the knob from her poor, defeated hand (despite the jeering of the bolt and mail slot, her backpack remained faithfully silent). Now that all chances of escape dwindled to a halt, the next course of action would be to turn and face the music, putting all thoughts of liberation back in semi-consciousness where they belonged. All for pulling through the unending blur of which shoes went best with purple mascara, and the importance of choosing the right foundation. All while the juicy prospect of right and reason stood behind 3 inches of wood? Turned-off teenager turns back at last chance: tune in for Scatterbrained Stockholm Syndrome tonight on Sick Sad-

_“Daria,”_

The bespectacled Morgendorffer released another sigh, before facing her mother. “Evacuating while the contagion is at its weakest.”

Helen caged a sigh of her own, and grew an infinitesimal smile for both their sake. “I realize you and Quinn’s friends don’t exactly see eye-to-eye, but fail to see how that constitutes going out in the dead of night.”

It was 10 pm on a Friday. Which meant for the exciting town of Lawndale, a ripe ol’ evening of TV-watching, pizza-eating, quiet-sobbing, and in rare and awing circumstance: _microwave_ pizza-eating. Or if you happened to live in a 2-story house with a lawyer, a fragrant fashionista, and…Jake Morgendorffer, a tolerable night of microwave pizza, reruns, and _Masque of the Red Death_. Daria stomached as much as humanly possible from the invaders nesting in the living room, but those harboring a soul only had so much forbearance for the mantra of: “ _EWW!_ I CAN’T BAH- _LIEVE_ SHE THOUGHT SHE COULD GET AWAY WITH WEARING _THAT!”_  

The deal-breaker had been when perfume started to waft through the air vents. Biological warfare was admissible for sneaking out, wasn’t it?

Such was the naivety of youth…

“Mom?” One peculiarly-familiar head popped out of the living room. “If you’re going out, could you pick up some more avocado mask?”

Helen Morgendorffer gave her daughter a rigid look.

Quinn shrank back. “Or not…”

Back to square one, the woman faced her eldest child, and relented a deep sigh. “If it’s Jane’s you’re running off to I’ll just drive you there myself. Your father was supposed to be back from a meeting an hour ago and I’m starting to worry.”

Given Dad’s…colorful history with bodily incidents, her concern probably wasn’t unfounded. Being the attentive daughter she was, Daria sought to console her mother’s growing unease.

“Don’t worry, Mom: statistics show you’re more likely to be attacked by the average possum than a mugger after nightfall.”

“Daria…”

“I’m going,” she marched toward the door while Helen grabbed the keys.

“Oh my GOSH, she’s wearing _taupe pantyhose!”_

“The _shiny_ kind!”

As an innocent family of squirrels were terrorized by the sound of chattering chihuahuas, Ms. Morgendorffer high-tailed it to the car before _Mrs_. Morgendorffer had chance to blink.

Safe within the confines of the airtight vehicle, it was now a matter of patient, unbothered waiting as her mother vacated the house, started the car and began to pull from the driveway.

As they departed, Helen kindly mentioned, “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to find some hobbies yourself.”

“Better safe than sorry.”  


* * *

   
She should have known it was all too easy: after all, no loving god is without his devious sense of humor, and since when did Mom let her stay at a place no parent occupied since the Kennedy’s were in office? Maybe it’d been too distracting thinking about the perfect set-up this would be to a badly-conceived horror movie: teenager alone at night, wind sighing through the trees, and just enough light cast by the full moon to give Casa Lane that nice, teeth-clacking feel. The kind of scene that would finally be ended with a shadow closing in and…

And then she made it to the door.

Well, that was anticlimactic.

Giving a knock, Daria looked back—just to make sure if there _was_ a serial killer, he would probably want to know he missed his cue—and tapped a foot on the splintered doorstep. A few moments passed without any sign of life, provoking a louder knock, heeding no concern for noise: the closest neighbors couldn’t touch this place with a jet wing (and all things considered, would probably rather not).

When a long creak answered at last, Daria turned around.

“Yeah?”

And wished there _had_ been a killer.

“Oh, hey Daria.” Answered a very tall, very groggy, very shirtless Trent.

Daria stilled as all mindfulness was perpetually shot to hell.

“…Hey.”

“Comin’ in?” The mellow musician moved aside.

Another moment. “Uh…yeah. …Thanks.”

With dumb luck, she made it through the front door unscathed. _Damn_.

“Janey’s not here,” Trent said before being asked, “went out for awhile.”

Daria noted to taint Lane’s pastels with gorilla glue when this was over. “Oh… Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“She didn’t say.” He thumbed toward the kitchen. “Want a soda?”

Daria was glad he started leading the way so as to overlook an intrinsic mumble at the floor. Oh look, a ketchup stain (or so it seemed). Following her friend’s brother’s annoyingly-muscular back, they stopped at the fridge, wherefrom the tattooed guitarist pulled a purple and red can. He tossed her the purple.

“So, how’s it goin’?”

“Quinn decided to have her comrades infiltrate the house. Mom was supportive enough to let them stay.”

“Rough,” the young man rubbed one hand over his nape (Daria berated herself for staring at one very conspicuous bicep). “We had nights like that when Wind divorced his first wife. Mom invited her pottery class over for therapy or something.”

“Sounds like it could’ve been worse for you and Jane.”

Trent shrugged. “She wasn’t into clay—more like seeing how much ketchup could get inside Penny’s shampoo bottle.”

Could that explain the mysterious stain in the living room?

“Hey,” Trent thumbed _out_ of the kitchen, “wanna come up to my room for awhile?”

Was that an engine, or was somebody’s chest about to implode?

“…What for?”

“I’ve been working on some chords for the next gig, and I could use a second opinion.”

Daria looked away. “You want…me?”

Trent smiled. “Who better than someone cool enough to be Janey’s friend?” He set the soda down. “How ‘bout it?”

Spend an unknown amount of unsupervised time with a half-unclothed guitarist? Hmm, all signs pointed to getting the hell out.

 

* * *

   
So there they sat, cross-legged in the purgatorial zone known as Cirque De Trent. The room was comprised of its usual…embellishments. A wrinkled shirt, an old amp too rocked out to work anymore, and…either a chewed pen cap, or one of those plastic things off shoelaces. Daria decided not to pay too much attention, and mutely watched the lead of Mystic Spiral strum a few inventions on his unplugged guitar. He had enthusiasm for what lacked in rhythmics, to say the least, and the tattoo on his forearm looked _just_ like a doodle she made in math class one day…

A cringe: _Since when did you turn into Quinn?_

Trent stopped. “That bad, huh?”

“Uh, no, just…” she glanced down and pulled awkwardly at her collar, “a little hot.”

“Maybe you should take off your jacket.”

Daria waylaid all visible reaction but the damned blush that was already resurfacing.

Trent automatically smiled and even the “Q.B.” could figure out he knew _exactly_ what she was thinking about (except she wasn’t. Hand to God). _Damn_ Jane for leaving her alone with her brother. Her tall…untroubled…contagiously-laid-back brother. With only tattoos above the waist.

Her glance darted to an object in the corner.

“Uh, that’s nice. Souvenir?”

Trent decided to go easy on her and followed her gaze. There was a twisted hunk of metal sitting on the other side of the room. Despite its shininess, it was in all other aspects a blaring health hazard. “Jesse found that in a dumpster at a gig. Thought it’d look good as a stage prop.”

“Oh.”

Silence reigned for a full minute.

“So…”

“So…?”

Trent plucked at a few frets while Daria raced for a distraction.

“You don’t find it weird being here all by yourself?”

“It’s kinda therapeutic, in a way. Numbs the pain of obligations outside, you know?”

_…Not really._

“Kind of.”

The taller of them settled back against the wall. “You know, Daria, you’re pretty cool to hang with.”

Daria’s cinching chest permitted another, “Oh?”

“Oh. Before you came to Lawndale, things were pretty boring. Sometimes I even thought about splitting off the band.”

Were Daria’s brain at working capacity, it might have suggested countering with: “Sometimes _I_ think about how Quinn would look over the mantle.” But as it was under siege by unnatural forces, what came was: “Oh.”

“And Janey wasn’t as happy, either. Some days she’d just stay up in her room. All the time.”

But she _still_ stayed up in her room.

“…But she _still_ stays up in her room.”

Trent smiled. “Yeah, but now she has a pretty good reason.”

To say that was a little surprising was like saying Chernobyl was a little quiet. Luckily, dull silence martyred itself to prevent one more slip of the tongue… And here a rightly-deserved hand to the face was nearly distributed. It was obscene: she’d known him as long as she’d known Jane, and Jane never rendered her brain to the intellect of a digested lima bean.

“Listen, um…sorry about barging in in the middle of the night.”

“It’s cool. Jane wouldn’t have wanted you to put up with that girl who lives with you anyway.”

Somebody who didn’t know Quinn’s name? A loving God _could’ve_ existed. In spite of this joyful revelation, the hour began to take its toll on her eyelids, and nodding off was narrowly escaped upon realizing that tickle down her nose was a pair of expensive glasses.

Trent didn’t let _that_ go unnoticed, at least. “Gettin’ kinda late, huh?”

Daria mumbled and both stood on their feet, once Trent laid his guitar down with a tendons-grappling-under-tanned-skin yawn—this she took as cue to get out before anything _else_ could happen. While he began swiping the junk off his bed she made a subtle-ish beeline for the door.

“So, thanks for-“

“Janey’s bed’s out of commission,” his voice did state before she could get far, “all that stuff piled on hers almost makes mine look good.”

Daria’s head endured a momentary lapse.

“…The…couch…”

“Nobody’s seen it since last Tuesday. We don’t really know what happened.”

Daria could not fathom the universe’s sick sad sense of humor: of course the night she sought refuge from the forces of fashion at her dear friend’s house, said dear friend was out and had tactlessly left a capricious deputy in her place. And just to twist the knife, in an unceremonious state of dress as well. Now the only question was…

“Then where’s she been sleeping this whole time?”

“School, I guess.”

Another conclusion that would have been drawn were her mind not in such a state.

“Daria?”

Drawn from her thoughts, the eldest Morgendorffer spared a glance. Trent was now standing by a mostly-clean bed (well, it was wiped off; underneath it was probably still a microbiologist’s dream). He pulled up the only blanket and—impressively—there were hardly any surprises.

“Gonna climb in?”  


* * *

   
So here she lay. Alone. Nothing but silence. Nobody but her, the dark, and floorbound Trent atop a layer of miscellaneous to keep unceremonious thoughts at bay. Of course, mementos of the forbidden still lurked in every corner. Discarded junkpile here, lukewarm can there, and heaps of unfinished lyrics flocked wherever. Maybe if she survived this nightmare, it would go down as one of the newest forms of torture. After all, it wasn’t exactly a picnic to be graced with the presence of-

“You okay?”

Considering the involuntary twitch might’ve been noticed were it not so dark, pretty survivable.

_At-ease, sailor._

“Yeah. …You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Daria settled back into the mattress (the _far_ end), thoughts of the prickly sort evacuating her head. It wasn’t _that_ bad taking up space in Trent’s bed (once one ix-nayed the _Verboten_ ): dust off the occasional pile of crumbs and it was practically…sleepable. Mayhap this lent reason as to why so much time was spent in it.

“Sure you don’t want your pillow?”

“It’s okay, I’ve been sleeping like this since _I_ was in high school.” His answer came from somewhere below the right. “You gotta develop a tolerance for these things going into the music business.”

“Oh.”

Whilst closing her eyes (and repressing the pair of bent arms cushioning one Mystic Musician’s head), Daria sought to erase all thoughts of the provocative—preferring to distract her brain with more wholesome thoughts. Like luring Jane into a pottery kiln. Seeing as Jane wasn’t coming back any time soon, though, and it _was_ getting pretty late, the only option evading the road to madness seemed to be just lying back to sleep. Sure, Ms. Lane would ask questions in the morning, and God help her if Quinn ever found out, but for now it seemed _sort of_ logical to just relax and let depthless darkness have its way with her.

Which was meant in the _least_ interesting way possible.

Curling up like it was done at home, Daria found sleep _almost_ nigh…until another surprise came a-knockin’.

She rolled and just tried to ignore it, trusting all impulses to unwind. The room was still a zenith of silence and nightfall. All monotony would return tomorrow and Quinn would be ripe for the Polaroid if her doting sister returned early enough. So soothing was the thought, the issue vexing Daria didn’t return until it was _purging_ her senses.

From beneath her very head.

One helpless teenager groaned: the familiar scent of cigarettes and after shave hazed the very pillow she purloined. Pungent penalty, anyone?

In defense, she sunk into the confines of her night shirt, puckering her brow to further summon unconsciousness. It was only for the night; completely possible to last another 6 hours, _and_ act as though nothing ever happened. With this in mind, she rolled back t-

_PLOP!_

A head grew over the edge of the bed. “You okay?”

Considering most bedside falls had the _potential_ to kill a restless sleeper, yet she had slipped through the cracks, it was nice of the dark to forbid _seeing_ her instant humiliation. But the drop _had_ ignited the idea to research effects of long-term cave-dwelling on a human psyche. Now who would it be: Lady Lane or Young Morgendorffer?

Daria sat up. A newborn headache under her hand. And behind her lips? A plethora of curse words that would make Guy Fawkes choke up. Such a distraction was this, it nary sparked reason for thinking an affront on the bow was apt to occur.

“Here, lemme get a look.”

Something warm fumbled against her cheek, and all hope was lost.

Trent’s hand steadied her jaw while its twin carded through muzzled hair. Too bad it was too dark to see, or else she might’ve never endured the hybrid aroma of young adult male and struggling pubs from the original source. Lack of sleep was also probably playing a part in which she failed to mention everything felt alright. That the Brain and her head made it out unharmed. That the best thing to do would be to go back, lay down, and continue feigning sleep.

A shame sleep seemed inappropriate—even hazardous— now that it became suspiciously hard to breathe.

“Feel alright?”

Not _so_ far gone, Daria attempted to establish communication.

“Mrglfwp.”

…Unfortunately it was only a language tiny amphibian-like creatures understood.

A second attempt was given. “My…head’s just…”

Feeling a large hand smooth around her crown put Daria in a daze. So much that if Trent’s hand ever touched the spot of impact, its presence was inconsequential. Unfortunately for Ms. Morgendorffer, the unending inspection required a mute amount of proximity—in other words, getting unthinkably close. So much that even the dark couldn’t cloud the image in front of her.

Trent eventually pushed the rest of her hair behind her neck. “Feels okay.”

Daria averted her eyes as Trent remained where he was in front of her. Both unmoving and inaudible in the darkness.

Blaming it on a crick in her neck—never curiosity—Daria dared look up, and there was Trent, gaging her for a reaction much like she had before.

Without even waiting for verbal response, he slowly turned his head and Daria followed his gaze to the empty bed. Calm. Disheveled. Unopposed.

Just as slowly that gaze returned to her, Daria mirroring its every move, and a brow rose to the midst of his forehead.

Daria’s gaze found its way back into her lap, weighing the options…

For routine’s sake.  


* * *

   
And that was how the pair found themselves underneath the same blanket, Trent’s weight carefully atop her, Daria’s breathing under deliberate control. Trent was undoubtedly one of the more preferred _Homo Sapiens_ in her life—and in damnedable honesty, not exactly tedious to look at—but that didn’t do much for the constant reminders of her…fallbacks.

She was not ignorant to the ways of sex—and probably knew the whole sordid system before most read their 4th novel—but every resource she learned from tended to cover the…fundamental, not the technique. It was obvious who put what where and how it resulted in the creation of a slobbering tax deduction, but…

Damn techniques.

Trent’s hands were slow and easy, pausing every once in awhile to check if she was still into it. Her reluctance was obvious, and that was something that couldn’t be helped (she tried, really), which resulted in sensuous foreplay speckled with propping himself up to ask,

“This alright?”

Weren’t rock stars supposed to be selfish, prehensile bastards?

Another nod, and he went back to attending her neck. Daria gave only a _slight_ shiver as his hands traveled a little low…

Trent looked up.

“It’s fine.” She insisted before his mouth could open.

Given this permission, he still kept his eyes on her as his hands slid unrelentingly from her stomach, to the curves of-

Daria clenched her eyes shut.

“We can stop, y’know.” His voice spoke. “It’s okay.”

“No, really, it’s…” Daria peeled one eye open and dared to look down.

Even dime store smut wouldn’t have prepared her for this (had she bothered to partake in the indulgence of lonely housewives). Two hands were close to… _there_ , and with both of them stomach-to-stomach, she could make out every tendon and tattoo of his body. It wasn’t _bad_ , but she was still glad it was dark. This whole rendezvous was daunting to begin with, but the thought of Trent seeing more than just her brain…

“Sure?” One hand abandoned its post in favor of her cheek, and the younger of them emitted a sigh.

“I’ve never…”

Trent chuckled, prompting her to wonder what to make of that.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

He lowered to press a long kiss to her cheek. This caught Miss Morgendorffer off-guard, as she expected-

The kisses soon migrated downward. Inching across wary, available skin. A tingling sensation with every brush of the lips, short-lived burning in its wake, then moving on to deliver another taste. That was before he even reached her mouth.

A smooth, unwavering kiss bestowed itself without pause, conjuring a heady sensation in the Virgin Morgendorffer. Something escaped her when he moved; time and mortification revealed it as a moan.

That seemed to be just what he was waiting for, and the kisses became less hesitant, more explorative of her jaw and neckline. Something warm was beneath Daria’s hand, and—with her head too numb to turn—two eyes spotted it in Trent’s hair. An inkling proposed it might’ve been wise to allow instinct prevalence over thought and reason.

Something which soon came into practice when his mouth focused on her neck.

“Tr-Trent…” Fingers were splayed over her ribs, having yet to touch the untouched, but slowly, _slowly…_

“We need to get these off,” a finger hooked itself into the last bit of separation, “they don’t look very comfortable…”

She felt the bed move with the rustle of clothing, and pretty soon was introduced to a surprise.

Up close and in the flesh.

One hand dove between them, its twin going upward to finally seize its destination. Mortifying, memorable moans seasoned the room in the moments that came to pass. And before dawn had broken, it was clear: nothing—her relationship with Trent, how she looked at his room, …life—would ever be the same.   
  


* * *

   
Dawn crept in with its usual presumptuousness. Red blots tugging on her retinas. Instinct still at the helm, a head ducked under the covers, scrunching at the onslaught of cigarettes and aftershave.

Daria’s eyes opened.

The room still looked the same. Pile of junk heaped on one side of the bed. Half-finished lyrics sprawled about the floor. Aluminum can full of flat soda. Everything untouched.

…Except the snoring musician at her side.

A pondering gaze navigated the room, whilst owner of said pondering stewed on outcome both long- and short-term. What possible implications could already be manifesting into reality with every silent breath.

Daria couldn’t call it second thoughts; whether brought about by the potential of regret or some kind of identity crisis for what this could mean for life or personal growth. She didn’t regret it, and she didn’t really see how an erection in her birth canal would turn her into a wanton lady-of-the-evening type.

But she thought it _should_ have felt like something.

The act was…pleasant (she would NOT blush), and Trent had been surprisingly conscious of her the whole time. Trent who was low-key and mellow most of the time. Trent who was often first to elect on the least-tedious option. Trent who was…

Who was staring at her for God knew how long.

At first, natural awkwardness resumed its post and her gaze lowered to the mattress. A sure, steady hand caught her chin and tilted it back up. A lazy smile was waiting for her, and—driven by neither instinct nor reason—Daria’s lips drew in a relaxed one as well. Maybe-

A metallic squeal roused both of their attention.

“Hey Trent, seen my-“

Daria was aghast. Jane was equally speechless. And the two gawked for what seemed like-

“AH!”

“ _AH!”_

“AHHH!”

“ _AHHH!”_

Trent, on the other hand, was surprisingly composed. “I guess you forgot how to knock…”

Jane stepped back. “I’ll just… Bye.”

SLAM!

Deafening silence took the place of horrific mortification, although a lingering tenseness remained. Trent scratched his nape whilst Daria eyed the wall some more. There was definitely a lot of pondering, to say the least.

Jane’s reaction was one bridge to cross. How their friendship would endure this was uncertain. There also remained the days, weeks, maybe months ahead which would now carry this. Was the fact that she wasn’t really changed by what happened a good thing? Even now, daring to look at the young man beside her summoned the typical timidity.

And yet…Trent _had_ been sympathetic. Even more than she expected of anyone who would be The First Time, and—let’s face it—Trent… _might’ve_ been the first specific anyone instead of a conjured ideal partner. It was obvious he cared, noticed these things. Somehow this information, despite all else, took the venom out of the murky road ahead.

Trent’s voice spoke eventually.

“Hey, you ok?”

Daria looked upon the mattress, their clothes on the floor, the sun rising outside.

“I’m ok.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a major step-back into childhood. For those wondering, I always pictured the age-difference as 5 years. In this oneshot Daria is 17. Trent is 22. I’d never even known Daria existed as a kid, but the 90’s were pretty easy to relive: pizza was king, TV still outshined internet, sarcasm was an art only few had grown to carve… Hope you D/T shippers enjoyed. This was my first Daria fanfic and I hope it pleases. Thanks for reading!


End file.
